A World of Hurt: Consequences
by Alipeeps
Summary: Part of a series of Shep whumpy tag fics to Season 3 eps. Common Ground tag. SPOILERS FOR COMMON GROUND! Colonel Sheppard was unusually quiet.... NOW COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

_Part of the "A World of Hurt" series – an ongoing, only slightly AU series of whumpy tag fics to the each of the Season 3 episodes. By hook or by crook I will work some Shep whump into every episode.. if TPTB won't do it, then I'll just have to do it myself :) These stories are designed to fit in with the canon of Season 3 – imagine, if you will, that they take place "off-screen" before, during or after the episode, as appropriate._

_Seventh fic in the series – this is the tag for Common Ground. Slightly out of order I know but I will be going back and doing the tags for Progeny and The Real World. But I just had to get this one out of my system first. This was such a highly anticipated Shepisode and it certainly didn't disappoint. And healed or not, you can't tell me anyone can go through what Sheppard did in that episode and not have some psychological repercussions. So here is my take on that… First chapter is Carson POV, next chapter will be Sheppy POV._

_Please read and review._

_**SPOILERS FOR COMMON GROUND!

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Colonel Sheppard was unusually quiet. Well, perhaps not so much unusually _quiet_, Carson mused. After all, for all his easy charm, the Colonel was an oddly reserved man and never really much of a chatterbox. But today something was definitely different. The man was.. quiet, yes. But not just quiet, rather.. subdued. Yes. That was it. Subdued. The Colonel was a man who always played his cards very close to his chest, never really sharing his emotions with anyone, and yet Carson had the sneaking suspicion that John Sheppard was someone who nevertheless felt things very deeply; he simply chose to keep those feelings to himself. Over the course of two and more years in Atlantis, Carson had seen Sheppard deal with every kind of situation imaginable, and seen him cope with it all, and he'd seen some of those emotions leak through Sheppard's rigid control. He'd seen the man angry, he'd seen him worried, seen him scared – try though he might to hide it. But this was the first time Carson had seen Sheppard so still, so listless.

It seemed the light had gone from the Colonel's eyes, that sparkle of mischief, of interest, of.. vitality that was so much a part of the man. Strange how you could not really notice something like that until it was gone. The John Sheppard Carson knew had a constant energy to him, a certain impression of strength and power that went beyond the merely physical. But right now he sat uneasily on an exam bed, his shoulders rigid with tension and his eyes miles away, making no attempt to maintain his usual, cheerful demeanour. Sheppard seemed distant, his attention focused inwards.

The journey back from Kolya's secret base had been…oddly strained. Sheppard had been energetic and intense, focused entirely on finding a location to drop the unconscious Wraith and brushing off Carson's and his team mates' bemused concern. Everyone had been uncomfortable about the comatose Wraith laid out on the floor of the rear compartment, all of them still stunned by the revelation that the Wraith could give life as well as take it, still struggling to comprehend what exactly had gone on between Sheppard and the creature. They'd been none the wiser by the time Sheppard had stepped back inside the cloaked jumper and signalled to McKay to take off.

With the Wraith gone there had seemed to be a vacuum in the small craft, a big, empty space filled with questions and concerns.. and John Sheppard had wanted none of it. He'd held on to his outwardly calm, unruffled composure with grim determination, brushing aside his friends concern's with his standard "I'm fine," and making it clear he did not want to talk, saying only "Let's just go home." The short flight back to Atlantis had passed in uncomfortable silence, Sheppard's team mates sharing looks of concern and confusion that the Colonel had resolutely ignored, their tentative enquiries as to whether he was okay petering out in the face of his determination to act as if nothing had happened. Carson had found himself watching Sheppard closely, wondering just how much it was taking out of him to hold himself together for their benefit. Sheppard had looked outwardly relaxed as he sat on a bench in the rear compartment, his eyes closed as he leaned back against the wall. He'd only opened his eyes and leant forward as the jumper had begun its slow, controlled ascent into the jumper bay and, in that moment, as Carson had watched him straighten himself and settle his mask of nonchalance firmly into place, their eyes had met and the mask had slipped for an instant, Carson shocked by the hollowness of that gaze. He'd blinked and the moment was gone.

The mood on Atlantis had been understandably jubilant when Sheppard was returned to them, whole and healthy, but Carson had found himself watching Sheppard with a concerned eye, noting his abstraction, his reluctant response to being the centre of attention. The smile on Sheppard's face had been forced and Carson could see the rigid tension in the way he held himself, looking for all the world like he was about ready to bolt. He'd seen the relief on Elizabeth's face morph into worry when Sheppard visibly flinched as she hugged him.

He'd taken it upon himself to hustle Sheppard out of the jumper bay and straight to the infirmary, ignoring the protests of the Colonel's team as he'd refused to allow any visitors.

Sheppard looked up warily as Carson approached and the doctor's mouth tightened at the look on the Colonel's face; not a little tension and a whole lot of something much darker, much deeper – something Carson couldn't even begin to guess at. Things had happened in such a rush when they'd found Sheppard. They'd gone in there expecting the worst, having watched in horror as he was fed upon no less than three times by the Wraith, hoping against hope that there would be something left to rescue, that somehow Sheppard could be saved. And they'd found him not only still alive but restored to full health, looking no different than when he'd left Atlantis. From that moment on they'd been stumbling along in Sheppard's wake, trying to keep up with events without really understanding what was happening. And of course, as shocked as they were, they'd been relieved beyond measure to find their friend apparently uninjured. It was all too easy to forget that, though he may have been healed, though there was no remaining sign of the damage done to his body, Sheppard had nevertheless endured pain and suffering on a scale few could imagine. There may be no visible marks left… but Carson could see the scars in the haunted look to Sheppard's eyes.

"How are you doing, son?"

"I'm good." Sheppard's voice was quiet but Carson couldn't help but notice how tightly his hands gripped the edge of the mattress. The man was clearly on edge, holding on to his control by dint of willpower alone. He kept his voice calm and soothing, allowing a hint of a smile to colour his words,

"With respect, Colonel, that's what you always say. You've been through a lot…"

"I'm fine, Carson." There was a hard edge to Sheppard's voice as he interrupted, a sour taste of bitterness as he muttered, almost to himself, "Better than ever, in fact."

"Okay, son." Carson's voice was sympathetic but firm. "I'd still like to check for myself though, if you don't mind." Sheppard's shoulders tensed and the Colonel looked for a brief moment as if he were about to say he did mind, but Carson stood firm, his expression making it clear that, no matter how he'd phrased it, this was _not_ a request. He knew the very moment when Sheppard acquiesced, the Colonel seeming to collapse in on himself a little, some of the tension draining from his body as he gave in to the inevitability of a physical exam.

Nevertheless, Carson couldn't help but notice Sheppard's involuntary flinch as he stepped closer. He found himself biting down on a raging anger unlike any he had ever known, a fury that had been building in his gut ever since he had stood in the control room and watched his friend being tortured over live video link. The mere thought of the lines Kolya had crossed, the suffering he had caused, made Carson almost regret his Hippocratic oath; if the Genii commander had been before him right at that moment, Carson would have been hard pressed to stay true to his vow to do no harm.

He stayed where he was, letting the edgy Colonel get used to his proximity, and kept his voice calm and relaxed. "Why don't you take your jacket off, Colonel? The quicker we get this over and done with, the quicker you can get out of here and get some rest."

Sheppard's offered a weak grin but the smile didn't reach his eyes as he agreed absently, "Yeah. Some rest.." His movements were slow, hesitant, as he shrugged the leather jacket from his shoulders.

Carson busied himself with settling the stethoscope in his ears, warming the metal cup in his hands as Sheppard let the jacket drop to the bed behind him. When he looked up he found the Colonel staring absently into space, one hand unconsciously rubbing at his chest. Carson's stomach lurched.

"Colonel Sheppard?"

Sheppard snapped out of his daze with a visible start and Carson watched as the Colonel determinedly gathered himself, breathing out a long, deliberate breath as he dropped his hand to the mattress beside him. He nodded. "I'm good."

Carson's eyes lingered on Sheppard's hands, the Colonel's knuckles almost as white as the bedsheets as he gripped the mattress edge hard, but he kept any scepticism from his voice, making sure his movements were slow and telegraphed as he moved towards his patient.

"I'm just going to have a listen to your chest, son." He kept talking as he moved around the bed, informing Sheppard of what he was going to do before he did it, acutely aware of the tightly reined-in tension in the Colonel's body. "Just going to lift your shirt up here and put the stethoscope to your skin, Colonel." Sheppard didn't flinch as he laid the metal cup against the man's back but nonetheless Carson could feel the trembling of muscles through his hands, the Colonel's posture stiff and uncomfortable.

"A couple of deep breaths now, lad. That's it.."

Carson listened to Sheppard's lungs, moving the stethoscope around, keeping up his commentary as he did so.

"Just another couple of deep breaths for me. Okay. And one more.."

He let Sheppard's shirt drop and removed the stethoscope from his ears. "Well, your lungs sound just fine, Colonel. I'll want to check your temperature and blood pressure too and we could do with taking a blood sample or two. We understand so little about the effects of Wraith feeding on the human body…"

He could have kicked himself, his words tailing off as Sheppard visibly shuddered, the sheets twisting in his grip.

"I'm sorry, son. I didn't.."

"Can we just get this over and done with?" Sheppard's voice was rough and he kept his head turned to the wall as Carson moved around the bed once more.

"Aye, lad." Carson's worked quickly but methodically, making sure to warn Sheppard before he inserted the in-ear thermometer, avoiding any quick or unexpected movements as he wrapped the blood pressure cuff around the Colonel's arm. He noted his findings down on Colonel Sheppard's chart; temperature was fine, blood pressure a wee bit elevated but that was only to be expected given the Colonel's current stress level. The man seemed perfectly healthy. How on earth that was possible, given what they'd seen on the video feed, Carson could only imagine. There was so much they still didn't know about the Wraith feeding process and what it did to the human body.. they still didn't understand exactly how the Wraith drained life from a person and they had not even suspected that the process could be somehow reversed. What Sheppard needed more than anything, Carson felt, was time. Time to rest. Time to get a decent amount of sleep. And time to deal with what he had been through. He thought about suggesting that Sheppard see Heightmeyer but he already knew what the answer to that would be.

Having said that… Sheppard's arm was rigid in his grip as he pushed a needle carefully into a vein, the Colonel's head turned resolutely away to face the wall. Carson could feel the trembling tension in the man's limbs, see it in the rigidity of his posture. He could only imagine what it must have been like for Sheppard; to endure not only the agony of repeated feedings but also the endless hours inbetween with the knowledge of what awaited him, that Kolya would sacrifice more and more of his life to the hungry Wraith, killing him by inches, draining his life bit by bit until there was nothing left.

He pulled out the needle with a sigh, pressing a cotton pad to the small wound. "Have you considered talking to Kate..?"

"Are we done?" Sheppard was already hopping down off the bed, refusing to meet Carson's eyes as he instinctively bent his left arm up to hold the pad in place. Carson frowned.

"Not quite yet, Colonel."

Sheppard sighed in frustration, impatience evident in every line of his body.

Carson bit his lip. His words were quiet, his voice calm, but at his question Sheppard finally looked up. "Do you have any pain, son?"

Sheppard's eyes were haunted, his mask of unconcern stretched tight and thin over memories of pain and fear and more. "No." His voice was rough, the words almost catching in his throat. "I feel fine. I feel… strong." Carson nodded wordlessly, unable to break from that painful gaze.

It was Sheppard who blinked and looked away, and Carson swallowed as he watched the Colonel struggle to compose himself.

"Okay, son. We're done here.."

Sheppard was on his way to the door before Carson had even finished his sentence and the doctor was forced to call after him, "I suggest you go to your quarters and get some rest, Colonel.."

His answer was an acknowledging wave of a hand as Sheppard strode through the infirmary doors and without a backward glance. The doors slid shut with a hiss and Sheppard was gone from view, leaving Carson alone in the infirmary.

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_TBC…_


	2. Chapter 2

_Finally the closing chapter of my Common Ground fic – lots and lots of angsty Sheppy introspection in this chapter. _

_There is a very small epilogue to follow._

_Please review and let me know your thoughts… this was kind of a tough chapter to get down so I'd be interested to know what you think.

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It was the screams that awoke him. Hoarse cries of agonising pain jolting him from restless sleep to stare blindly into the darkness of his quarters, panic making his heart pound in his chest. The remnants of the dream clung to him, miring him in half-remembered sensation, and he found himself clasping a hand to his chest, unconsciously rubbing at the phantom memory of pain. It was a long moment before his sleep-fogged brain could process the fact that he was home, safe in Atlantis, and that the cries that had woken him had been his own.

"Oh shit.." he moaned helplessly, his breathing still ragged with fear and adrenalin. It had been so real. So damned real. And that was the problem, wasn't it? It _was_ real. _Had been_ real. He had lived through the reality of the agony and despair that haunted his dreams, his memories of that awful pain all too fresh and raw. He dragged a heavy hand across his face and realised with a numb surprise that he was shaking, physically trembling.

His heart was still racing in his chest and the sensation was too raw, too immediate, reminding him forcibly of the awful pain of the feedings, of the enzyme- and adrenalin-fuelled pounding of his pulse as he was left agonised and shaking in that damn chair. He was breathing too fast, hypoxia making him dizzy, but he couldn't seem to control it, to calm himself down. He found himself running a trembling hand over his sweat-soaked brow, seeking reassurance that he was still whole, not drained and aged.

"Dammit." His voice broke, the word becoming a sob as he shakily drew his legs up to his chest and wrapped an arm around his knees, sitting huddled in the tangled bedsheets, one hand still pressed to his chest, rubbing slowly at a pain that was not physical.

John Sheppard sat huddled in the dark and tried to tell himself that it was okay, that he was safe. That it was over. He shivered as the cold sweat of his nightmare dried on his skin, struggling to believe his own reassurances. He was terribly afraid that he was wrong, that it wasn't over.. that it would never be over. It took a long time for his breathing to slow, for the silent tears to dry on his cheeks. Finally, with a shaky sigh, he pushed himself into movement, forcing himself to straighten up from his curled up position, to untangle his legs from the twisted sheets and swing them over the side of the bed. He felt the reassuring coolness of the floor under his bare feet and concentrated on breathing slowly and steadily. His eyes scanned the darkness for the faint glow of his alarm clock and he regarded the readout with disgust. 3.27am. He'd managed to sleep for maybe an hour. That made a grand total of roughly four hours sleep in the past three days and he knew from experience that there was no hope of him getting back to sleep tonight.

His legs trembled as he pushed himself wearily up from the mattress, the room swaying briefly as his body protested being forced to function without proper rest and nourishment. John gritted his teeth against the ache of fatigue and hunger and staggered to the bathroom, fumbling in the dark for the shower controls and dropping his loose pants and t-shirt carelessly on the floor before stepping under the spray of steaming water. He stood for a long time in the darkened shower stall, letting the hot water pound against his skin, flatten his hair and drip from his nose as he braced his arms against the wall, his head bowed and his eyes closed as he remembered. His body trembled minutely and it wasn't just from fatigue. He just couldn't stop remembering.

He finally shut the shower down when he found himself shivering despite the heat of the water.

He towelled himself down carelessly and rummaged in the dark for sweatpants and a fresh t-shirt. He couldn't quite explain his reluctance to switch on the lights; he just knew that it was easier in the dark. When it was dark in here he knew it was night time and he could fool himself a little bit that this was just another nightmare, just another in a long line of bad dreams that troubled him in the hours of darkness but melted away when morning came. Turning on the lights, shining the cold glare of rationality onto these memories, was akin to admitting to that lie, to acknowledging that this fear and pain was not just a product of the small hours of the night, that it would not shrivel and die in the light of morning but would weigh heavy on his shoulders through both day and night and days to come. Turning on the light meant seeing his reflection in the bathroom mirror, unable to resist the need to study and compare, to ask himself if anything was different, if he had looked like this.. before. It meant seeing the shadows under his eyes and the hollow fear in his own gaze.

It was better in the dark.

The corridors of Atlantis were cloaked in gloom as he slipped from his room, water bottle in his hand. The city responded to him instinctively and he felt the conduits around him start to power up in order to raise the lighting level. With a thought he asked them not to and the hum in the back of his mind, more sensed than heard, receded and the corridor stayed dark. He pushed himself into a slow jog, easing into a gentle lope as his muscles warmed up and the stained glass windows of the city rolled past him. Before long he was running, stretching and straining his muscles, losing himself in the mindless rhythm of motion. His limbs burned as he pushed himself onwards, his body tired and aching, weak and undernourished. He ignored the pain, focusing solely on putting one foot in front of the other, rhythmically, repetitively.

Ironically, given what he'd been through, his body had been strong and healthy when he came through the gate back to Atlantis. He'd been literally humming with energy, strung out on nervous tension, life and vitality flowing through his veins. He'd never felt so strong, so vibrant, so… alive. It was only in the days since then, nightmares robbing him of sleep, tension stealing his appetite, that his body had begun to fail him, his muscles robbed of strength, his breath rasping as he ran. He wondered a little bitterly if he was somehow doing this to himself deliberately, if his subconscious was reacting with revulsion to the glorious feeling of strength and power that the Wraith had given him, if his mind were physically inducing the symptoms his body should have displayed after the trauma he had suffered. He pushed that thought away with a grimace of distaste and forced his aching legs to speed up, to carry him faster and faster through the darkened corridors of the city he called home.

Dawn had broken by the time he slowed to a stop, bracing his trembling arms on his knees as he bent over, his chest heaving as he struggled to suck in air, his legs shaking from fatigue. He hadn't really noticed the sky lightening as he ran, losing himself in the soothing, repetitive motion of physical exertion. He was still gasping for breath as he straightened, leaning tiredly against the nearest wall, raising a shaky arm to push the sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead. He glanced at his watch and was mildly surprised to find it was after 6am. He'd run for hours.

His route had taken him out through the outskirts of the city, skirting the very edges of the areas that had been explored and declared safe. It was peaceful out here, quiet; just him and the sound of the sea whispering in counterpoint to the pounding of his feet. He found himself oddly reluctant to return to the hub of the city, to deal with hustle and bustle and people and questions and the way people _looked_ at him. He didn't know how many people had actually witnessed Kolya's video feed. Elizabeth, obviously, and his team and Carson and he guessed whoever had been on control room duty at the time. But word had spread rapidly even amongst those who had not seen the video. Sheppard was held prisoner by the Genii. Sheppard was tortured and the pictures beamed live to Atlantis. Sheppard survived being fed on by a Wraith. He was the topic of discussion, the centre of attention, and for all the wrong reasons. And he hated it. He didn't know how to deal with the way people looked at him, didn't know how to interpret what he saw in their faces. He knew their perception of him was altered by what they had heard, by what he had been through, and he didn't know what to do about that. Or maybe it wasn't just their perception that had changed. Maybe _he_ had changed. Maybe he was no longer the John Sheppard who had stepped through the gate that morning and, if that was the case, then he didn't know what to do about that. He didn't know how to get that John Sheppard back. Didn't know if he _could_ get him back. And that thought terrified him.

He pushed away from the wall with a sigh and turned his shaky steps in the general direction of the mess hall. His stomach was empty, growling its dissatisfaction at him, twisting itself into knots. Maybe he was hungry enough for the smell of food not to make him nauseous. Maybe.

The mess hall was fairly empty at this early hour and John managed to find himself a table in a quiet corner where he could be undisturbed. He'd still had to run the gauntlet of the personnel assigned to kitchen duty this morning and he'd been uncomfortably aware of their eyes on him as he quickly grabbed a couple of plates at random, keeping his head down, not wanting to see the… the what? Curiosity? Sympathy? Admiration? - on their faces.

He really _was_ hungry; he was all too aware of the gnawing ache in his belly, knew that his body desperately needed nourishment.. and yet his stomach tightened and cramped as he looked at the food slowly cooling on his plate and his throat worked spasmodically as nausea rose up and stole his appetite. John put his fork down without taking a bite. He rested his elbows on the formica-topped table and rubbed tiredly at his eyes, feeling jittery and tense. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he could not go on like this; he needed sleep and he needed food and right now he was getting precious little of either. Sooner or later something had to give.

He was staring morosely at his plate, poking unenthusiastically at his uneaten food when McKay found him.

"What are you doing up at this hour? I thought you were supposed to be getting some rest?" McKay's tone of voice was accusing and John looked up to find the scientist glaring at him as if John's presence in the mess hall were a personal affront.

"Good morning to you too, Rodney.." Even to his own ears, John's light response sounded forced, his voice raw and tired.

McKay's tray clattered noisily onto the table and metal legs scraped against the floor as the scientist pulled back a chair and John had to grit his teeth and will himself not to react to the unwelcome intrusion into his solitude. This was ridiculous. McKay was his _friend_, he reminded himself. He liked Rodney's company, enjoyed bickering with the man, winding him up, the banter that they shared. So why was it that right now he wanted nothing more than to just tell McKay to go away and leave him alone?

"Seriously, why aren't you in bed? You don't look well."

The usual sharp arrogance was missing from McKay's voice and he hadn't even touched his own breakfast yet, his loaded tray ignored as he peered with concern at John's haggard face. John sighed. The sad truth was that what Kolya did had changed John, changed him in ways he was still coming to terms with, but worse than that, it had changed his friends too. It had changed Rodney. The normally self-obsessed, thoughtless scientist had been positively considerate during the past couple of days, hovering around during John's enforced infirmary visits, watching John's every move with a poorly disguised concern, hesitating before speaking, seemingly trying – possibly for the first time in his life – to think about the effect his words might have on others before he simply blurted them out, and generally treating John with kid gloves, as though afraid he might shatter if handled too roughly. John was beginning to feel that he might just shatter sometime soon.. and that what would finally break him would not be the nightmares, not the fatigue and hunger, not the stares of the mess hall staff but the unwanted sympathy from the people he cared most about.

All John wanted was to just get on with his life, the life he had been so desperate to get back to, and forget that Kolya and the Wraith and pain and feedings and prison cells and lying on a forest floor one breath away from dying had ever happened to him. But he couldn't. He couldn't go back to his life because his life wasn't the same any more – Kolya had changed it, ruined it. He'd made John's friends look at him differently, made the expedition members stare and whisper as he walked past, made Carson insist on daily check-ups and Kate Heightmeyer pester him to make an appointment. He'd even ruined Rodney. His friend was treating him differently because of what he had seen on that video screen and it set John's teeth on edge, made him want to scream with frustration. He dropped his fork to the table with an impatient sigh.

"I'm fine." His voice came out a little sharper than he intended and he could actually _see_ McKay take offence at the rebuff, the man's open face betraying a moment of hurt feelings before settling into stiffly forced politeness.

"Oh. Well. Good for you. Forget I asked then."

John grimaced as McKay pointedly ignored him in favour of digging into the piled plate of food on his tray. Dammit, this was all going wrong. It wasn't supposed to be like this. _He_ wasn't supposed to be… This wasn't how it was supposed to work. You didn't leave people behind; he lived his life by that simple, basic rule. You fought for your friends and you protected them and when they were in trouble you came and you helped them out. And you brought your friends back home and everything was right again. So when had it all gone wrong? What did you do when you brought your friend home but he was damaged, broken? And what if _you_ were the friend who came home but you were broken and you didn't know how to fix it? Fix things? Fix yourself?

John didn't know any more. A part of him wanted to explain all of this to Rodney. He knew he was being sullen, knew he was acting as oddly towards his friends as they were to him. But John couldn't find the words. He wasn't good at talking about.. stuff like that. Hell, that was part of why he and Rodney got on so well. They argued and squabbled like children and they laughed and joked and absolutely, totally didn't talk about the big stuff; it was all just kind of understood. And that worked just fine. _Had_ worked just fine. Except that now the big stuff seemed so much bigger. So big it sat in John's chest like a cold, hard, lump, making every breath an effort. But talking wasn't going to help. It wasn't going to change what had happened. Talking about what Kolya had done to him, about what Rodney had helplessly _watched_ Kolya do to him, would only serve to remind them both of things they would much rather forget. It would be acknowledging the reality of what had happened. It would be akin to admitting that Kolya had reached his slimy grip right into the heart of Atlantis and ripped away a little piece of each of their souls.

John knew he should say _something_, should probably apologise to Rodney, but the words wouldn't come. He sat and watched his best friend eat his breakfast in pointed, frosty silence and the only thing he could think of was that the sight and smell of the food, of Rodney eating the food, was making him sick to his stomach. He swallowed heavily and looked away, seeing the mess hall beginning to fill with people as the day started in earnest.

Wordlessly, John rose from the table and walked away.

Carson too was solicitous and concerned and it was all beginning to grate on John's nerves.

He sat uncomfortably on an exam bed while Carson poked and prodded and queried. John kept his answers short and brusque, ruthlessly pushing away the knowledge that he was being rude and that Carson was simply looking out for him, when what he really felt like doing was lashing out, knocking away the doctor's sympathetic touch and screaming at the top of his damned voice that no matter how many times Carson examined his chest, there wasn't going to be any sign left of the feeding mark that they'd all seen on the video feed, that he himself had felt aching and burning and trickling blood down across his skin, and that he didn't understand it either and that he didn't care any more and why couldn't they all just _LEAVE HIM ALONE_!

He sat still and sullen on the exam bed, his body rigid under the doctor's touch.

Carson sighed.

"Colonel, I can't help you if you want talk to me."

"I'm fine."

He refused to look Carson in the face, not wanting to see the goddamn pity staring back at him, but the tone of the doctor's voice was unexpectedly sharp.

"You're anything but fine, son!"

He looked up, surprised out of his introspection, and was mildly shocked to see not sympathy but anger in Carson's eyes.

"For god's sake, Colonel, you've been through hell. I can't imagine what.." He faltered, his voice cracking, and John's heart lurched at the pain he saw in Carson's eyes, pain _he_ had caused. "I don't _have_ to imagine what you went through, son because I saw it; I watched it happen live on a video screen. But I can't even begin to imagine what it must have been like for you, what you must have felt.."

Carson swallowed quickly and the anger in his eyes softened a little as he regarded John solemnly. "No-one is blaming you for being.. being traumatised by what happened.."

John flinched at that word and suddenly he wanted to be anywhere but here, having this conversation. But Carson wasn't done yet.

"But we're your friends, John and we only want to help you – but you won't let us. You wont talk to anyone. You hide in your room. You're not sleeping. You're not eating."

John thought about protesting but the stern look on Carson's face told him clearly not to even bother and he hung his head, staring in resignation at the floor as Carson continued to lecture him. He was tired of this, dammit. So tired of it all.

"John."

Carson waited patiently until John reluctantly met his gaze.

"I put you on light duty for a few days until we could be sure there were no residual effects from the repeated feedings and.. and whatever the hell the Wraith did to reverse the process. In that time your health has deteriorated, John and it has nothing to do with anything the Wraith did. You're doing this to yourself and your friends are worried about you. You need to let us help you."

Carson sighed heavily.

"I understand that you need some time, Colonel. No-one's expecting you to just carry on as if nothing had happened.."

"You won't let me," he blurted suddenly, angrily, regretting the words as soon as he'd uttered them.

Carson's expression was one of confusion. "I'm sorry, son?"

It was as a floodgate had opened; as if, once he gave a voice to the cold, hard lump in his chest, it broke apart and melted, pouring out of him in a flood of anger and fear and shame, the words tumbling from his lips against his will in an outpouring of emotion that left him shaking and weak.

"I just… I just want to get on with my life! I want to forget this ever happened. But you won't let me! Everybody… Everybody stares at me, watches me, talks about me, feels sorry for me. Everybody is treating me differently – you, Rodney, Elizabeth, Teyla, even Ronon - acting as though I'm not the person I was, as though I'm damaged and broken. You make me _feel_ broken."

He scrubbed a hand agitatedly through his hair as he fought to give a voice to the frustration.

"All I wanted was to get home. Get back to my life. It's what.. it's what kept me going in that… in that place. I never stopped believing that you guys would come for me and that I'd get home to Atlantis and now… and now I'm home and it's all still wrong, Everything is wrong. And I don't know if I can get back to where I was before. All I want is my life back. I don't want to _talk_ about what happened and I don't want people to treat me as though I'm some kind of hero or some amazing science experiment or a victim to be pitied!

I don't want people to ask me if I'm okay and I don't want tests and examinations. I don't want sympathy and concern. I just want…I want to be left alone and I want…"

Words failed him and his face twisted, tension making his stomach roil and his head spin dizzily.

"Colonel.." Carson reached for him with concern and John flinched, gave in to the desire to slap the doctor's hands away.

"I hate feeling this way and I don't want to feel like this anymore!" he shouted angrily.

He was breathing heavily and was shocked to find himself shaking; he lifted his hands in bemusement and watched them tremble. He felt utterly exhausted, the adrenalin of fear and anger draining suddenly from his system, taking with it the last of his energy.

"John.."

He let his hands fall to his lap and closed his eyes, hating the concern in his friend's voice, regretting his outburst more than ever.

"I'm sorry, son. I had no idea.."

"I'm tired, Carson," he whispered sadly. "I'm so tired of this."

"I know, son."

He didn't resist the pressure on his shoulders as Carson encouraged him to lie back on the exam bed. He kept his eyes closed as Carson swung his legs up onto the bed and carefully unlaced his sneakers. He lay still, feeling his body tremble and shake as Carson tucked a soft blanket around him. He was so very, very tired.

He could feel himself sinking into lethargy, the sleep he so badly wanted and needed, and yet also feared, stealing up on him. He frowned drowsily at the thought of another hour of broken, restless sleep, memories stealing unbidden from his unconscious mind to wrap him in fear and pain. He dragged his eyes open to find Carson standing over him and there was no sympathy in his friend's face, no pity, only understanding.

"Doc..?" he mumbled.

"I can give you something to help you sleep, Colonel. If you'd like?"

John thought about it for a long, weary moment before closing his eyes, signalling his acceptance with the smallest of nods. He was tired enough that he barely felt the needle prick in his arm, sleep already pulling him down into darkness. This time, finally, he did not dream.

* * *

_TBC..._


	3. Epilogue

_A little epilogue just to wrap this one up._

_As ever, reviews greatly appreciated.

* * *

_

"You did good."

Carson sighed, scrubbing a hand tiredly across his face.

"I don't feel good," he admitted.

"Nevertheless, Carson, you did the right thing. He _needed_ this."

Carson gave Kate Heightmeyer a wan smile. He was grateful for her attempt to ease his conscience but, whether he needed it or not, deliberately pushing your friend into a breakdown was not an easy thing to do – or to deal with. Carson had the feeling he might be having a few restless nights of his own in the near future.

Even in his sleep, the Colonel looked tired and drawn. He lay limp and still under the blankets Carson had tucked around him, his breathing deep and even, the light sedative apparently enough to let him sleep without disturbance for what Carson knew to be the first time in several days.

Kate's face was pensive as she stood at the foot of the Colonel's bed and watched him sleep. Carson had spent a lot of time with Kate during the past few days, not only in his own sessions with her, trying to cope with the personal repercussions of Kolya's actions, but also discussing their shared and growing concern for Colonel Sheppard and his deteriorating condition. Everyone could see that the Colonel was struggling and everyone had wanted only to help but he had continued to withdraw from them, rarely emerging from his quarters, refusing to even discuss what had happened. Carson had insisted on daily physicals and had been increasingly disturbed as he had seen Sheppard drop weight he could ill afford to lose, watched his mood and behaviour change for the worse as fatigue and stress took their toll.

Sheppard had resisted any suggestion that he talk to Kate, had made excuses whenever she had tried to make an appointment, and finally she and Carson had agreed together that something had to be done. It was clear to both of them that, sooner or later, the Colonel was going to break and they both preferred that happen in circumstances over which they had some control. It had been Kate's suggestion that Carson push Sheppard during his scheduled check-up. The infirmary was a safe location, one they could control and, importantly, where they could be assured of privacy. The Colonel was an intensely private man who rarely, if ever, discussed his feelings. Pushing him to break his iron control was not something either of them wanted to do in public.

It had been hard though; probably as hard on Carson as on Colonel Sheppard. He and Kate had discussed things in detail beforehand and she had prepped him as thoroughly as she could on what to do, how hard to push, and what reactions they could expect. She had waited in Carson's office during the check-up, out of sight but able to hear a little of the conversation.. and within shouting distance if needed. But when it came right down to it, Carson was on his own. It was he who had looked his friend in the face and pushed and prodded until he snapped.

Despite Kate's best intentions, Carson had been unprepared for the flood of emotion that broke through Sheppard's iron control. He'd never seen the man so lost, so angry, so… scared. Colonel Sheppard held it together under the most difficult of situations; it was something they'd all come to accept. It was just who he was, what he did. It had been difficult beyond his wildest imaginings to see the man so broken down, so vulnerable. What had horrified him the most though was the realisation that this was partly his.. partly _their_ fault. They'd all been so concerned for Sheppard, so worried about how he would cope with what had happened to him, that they'd treated him differently, changed the way they acted around him, and only exacerbated the situation. They'd stolen away the one thing he'd needed more than anything – a sense of normalcy. For all their good intentions, they'd done more harm than good.

Carson was startled out of his morose introspection by Kate's comforting hand on his shoulder. Her face was kind, concerned. "Hey. Are you okay?"

He tried for a smile, ended up with something closer to a grimace. "Aye. I will be, lass. In time.."

Kate gaze drifted back to the infirmary bed and its sleeping occupant and her voice was thoughtful as she mused, "I think that's what we all need, Carson. Time."

Standing over his troubled friend, watching him suffer from a condition Carson had no way to treat, the doctor found himself in the unusual position of being the one seeking instead of giving reassurance. "Is he going to be okay?" he asked quietly.

Kate's smile was warm, though her eyes were serious as she replied, "In time."

She looked back at the pale, exhausted Colonel. "He's made a start. Difficult though it may have been, he'll feel better for having expressed some of what was troubling him. What he needs now is plenty of sleep, proper nourishment and time to process things."

She glanced up at Carson with a sad smile. "I'm under no illusions that the Colonel will accept any direct help from me but we can all do what we can to support him. He'll deal with things in his own way.. and at least now we know what we can do to help."

Carson nodded sombrely. "Act as though none of it ever happened," he sighed heavily. "It doesn't seem healthy.."

He and Kate stood side by side in silence and watched Colonel Sheppard in his exhausted sleep.

"It's what he needs," Kate said simply.

* * *

_Fin._


End file.
